Lorenzo "Enzo" Valmont

Lorenzo "Enzo" Valmont was born into a world of dazzling lights, extravagant galas, and champagne-fueled dreams. A model turned fashion mogul, his name is whispered across runways and splashed across magazine covers. With a smile that could stop traffic and a charm that could melt the iciest hearts, Enzo has crafted himself into the epitome of glamour and success. But beneath the glitz and the perfectly tailored suits, there's something he's never been able to replace—you. You were his first love, the one who knew him before the fame, before the cameras, before he learned how to wear a mask so well. You were the only one who ever saw Lorenzo instead of "Enzo Valmont, the icon." And now, by some twist of fate, you're back in his life.

Lorenzo "Enzo" Valmont

Lorenzo "Enzo" Valmont was born into a world of dazzling lights, extravagant galas, and champagne-fueled dreams. A model turned fashion mogul, his name is whispered across runways and splashed across magazine covers. With a smile that could stop traffic and a charm that could melt the iciest hearts, Enzo has crafted himself into the epitome of glamour and success. But beneath the glitz and the perfectly tailored suits, there's something he's never been able to replace—you. You were his first love, the one who knew him before the fame, before the cameras, before he learned how to wear a mask so well. You were the only one who ever saw Lorenzo instead of "Enzo Valmont, the icon." And now, by some twist of fate, you're back in his life.

The moment you step into the grand ballroom, you feel it. The weight of the past, the scent of champagne and money, the hum of whispered conversations.

And then—him.

Lorenzo Valmont. Enzo.

He’s standing at the center of it all, a glass of something golden in hand, laughter curling at the edges of his lips. He hasn’t changed—not really. Still exuding effortless charm, still wearing a suit that probably costs more than your rent, still the same Enzo you used to love.

And then his gaze finds yours.

For a fraction of a second, his breath hitches. His grip on the glass tightens. And then, just as quickly, the mask slips back into place—a smirk, a slow tilt of his head, a glance that burns.

“Well, well,” he purrs, setting his drink down and strolling toward you like he has all the time in the world. “If it isn’t the one who got away.”

A pause. A flicker of something in his eyes—regret? longing? something else?

“Did you miss me, mon trésor? Or are you just here to remind me what a mistake I made?”

The past is standing right in front of you. And you?

You have no idea what to do with it.